


Not a Thing to be Waited for

by Ragga



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fake Dating, Growing Pains, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, Steter Secret Santa 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:48:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21885508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ragga/pseuds/Ragga
Summary: As a child, Stiles had cracked how the whole soulmate business worked. The names on his wrists had a specific order to place them as either his enemy or ally. His own Mr. Right was called Scott and, after meeting him, Stiles knew his theory was sound; his mom and dad had each other's names on their right wrists too, so there was no way that could be wrong. On his left he carried the name Peter. He had never met him but, when he did, he would know to be wary of him. After all, he was clearly his destined adversary...Right?
Relationships: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 57
Kudos: 800
Collections: Steter Secret Santa 2019





	Not a Thing to be Waited for

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadySlytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin/gifts).



> Ho ho ho! Happy holidays everyone, especially [LadySlytherin](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySlytherin)/[everything-a-wolf-could-want](https://everything-a-wolf-could-want.tumblr.com/)! I regret to inform you there will be no smut (I actually really suck at it) but I raise you with the fake dating trope you told was your absolute favourite so I hope it helps the ache a bit. I hope you and all the others enjoy the story :) I certainly had fun exploring where it took me!

“Destiny is not a matter of chance; it is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.”  
― **William Jennings Bryan**

***

When he was young, Stiles decided not to worry about his wrists. So many people hid the names that were written there, afraid of the chances they might give or take away, but Stiles had seen how the marks worked. Both his parents had each other’s names on their right wrist, for Mr. and Mrs. Right, of course, as his mom put it. Claudia was written in beautiful cursive, elegant in its form, while Noah was in simple blocks. Neither matched their handwriting, but Stiles imagined they reflected who they were on the inside. After all, his mother was the most beautiful person in the world and his father the strongest.

This in mind, he walked around with his wrists bare. His own Mr. Right was called Scott. A simple, strong name that too. The lettering was a little unassuming, the slant barely considered legible. Yet it stood proudly in black on his white skin. On his left there lied a glaring Peter that stretched almost around his entire wrist with the loops. Stiles had never cared if his pair was considered platonic or romantic—he was a precocious six-year-old, his mom said, when he had declared that—because both his names were male. Not everyone’s match was a Disney movie come true. Stiles himself fancied the idea that he would just have a person who would never leave him, be it a best friend or something else. He wasn’t the most popular with what his dad had called ei-dee-eight-dee or something like that; something to do with Stiles’ inability to stay still for longer periods of time.

There were no Scotts and only one Peter in his class but his wrists didn’t bear Stiles’ name. That was fine. Stiles could wait for his perfect match. His dad and mom met in their early twenties after all. He would still let the world see them, just in case his little-big someone was there searching for him too.

(He hid his marks after his mother died, afraid to see the colour fade and scar like it did on his dad’s wrist.)

***

He met his Scott on the first day of junior high school. He knew most of his classmates—Beacon Hills was only big enough for two schools—so, naturally, he and the rest of them were curious about the transfer student. The word was that he wasn’t from the other one further down the road towards Sacramento. He was something, some _one_ , completely _new_.

The buzz died when the fresh meat got an asthma attack in the middle of people crowding on him; not even Reyes got attacks that bad. Stiles, the only kid around with somewhat of a first aid background thanks to his dad, was the first to lend a hand. He immediately rummaged through the stranger’s backpack—this time for more legal reasons than usual—and slammed the inhaler to the kid’s already blue-tinted face. Someone must have alerted the faculty because it took less than a minute before the kid was hurried away.

People scattered, low murmurs and glinting gazes watching the now closed doors. Stiles, on the other hand, tore one of his wristbands off and stared at the nametag in shock.

The next day no one tried to repeat yesterday’s actions. They never would either.

Stiles made sure of it.

***

“So are you, uh, Mieshsishlaav?” Scott tried to say when Stiles showed him his wrist.

Stiles wrinkled his nose. “Just call me Stiles,” he said instead. “And I’m certainly not…” he trailed off and glanced at Scott’s other wrist. Scott held it up obligingly. “…Allison.”

Scott laughed at that, gently ribbing him about missing certain key body parts. Stiles nudged him, telling him he certainly had gained a few more important bits instead.

“How do you even say it?” Scott asked later when they sat down together in class. Thomas had willingly relinquished his hold of the seat next to Stiles, opting to go sit with Oliver and Jackson instead. Good riddance, Stiles though. He threw his backpack down with a bang.

“Stiles?”

“No, the-the other one.”

“Mieczysław.”

“Myeh-cheese-suave?”

“…Close enough, I guess.”

Scott gave him an embarrassed little grin. “…Stick with Stiles?”

The bell rang and the teacher walked in. Stiles flashed him one last grin, a little mischievous one at that.

“Stick with Stiles, buddy.”

***

Life… went on. It was hard at times, especially with how his dad tried his best to work off the leftover medical debt from the treatment of Stiles’ mom that the insurance from the Sheriff’s department hadn’t covered. Rarely home, Stiles spent much of his time with Scott whose mom worked just as hard to support her and her son. Scott’s dad, whom he rarely mentioned, was out of the picture and had been halfway through Scott’s elementary school years.

“They didn’t match,” Scott once admitted late at night when neither could sleep. They were lying on Scott’s floor, staring at his ceiling where Mrs. McCall had stuck glow-in-the-night stars to make it seem ‘more like home’ as she had put it. “I found out by accident. They didn’t know I was listening but I was and dad yelled at her that his match, either of them, was better than she ever was. Mom threw him out after that. I haven’t seen him since and his stuff disappeared one day I was at school.”

“My mom and dad matched,” Stiles revealed in turn. “But when mom died… dad, he fell apart. If it wasn’t for me, I… he tried his best. There were times—” He could still remember the late nights when his dad had put Stiles to bed but nightmares had driven him downstairs again, and the sight of him, a half-empty bottle on the table and his wrists uncovered as he stared at them in silence. “—That were hard but I think he’s going to be alright now. I mean, comparatively.”

“That’s awful.” Scott’s whisper echoed in the otherwise silent room. “I don’t… If you were gone, I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Me either.” Stiles reached over and squeezed Scott’s hand.

Scott’s smile, when he turned to look at Stiles, was tiny at first before it grew until it was filled with hopeful joy. “Together forever?” he said, reaching towards Stiles with his pinkie finger. Stiles took it with his own and they shook on it solemnly.

“Always.”

***

After that, Stiles grew closer to Scott day after day until they were nigh inseparable. One couldn’t see either without the other, and Stiles and Scott soon became StilesandScott. It was widely accepted that the two were an item with the connection they had whether one thought they were in a relationship or not. The one time someone whose name isn’t going to be mentioned—Whittemore—tried to bully Scott for his asthma, he wound up in the nurse’s office with a broken leg. Everyone knew it was Stiles who caused it.

No one could prove it though.

So yes, everything was quite perfect as far as Stiles thought.

Then came high school, a misadventure at night, a terrible case of on and off hairiness, and the name on Scott’s left wrist.

Allison.

***

The last bell rang and Stiles broke off from the mass of his classmates, making his way to his locker. If he was quick, he’d be home in fifteen and ready to make his dad some dinner to take to work. His cholesterol had looked better the last time they had tested it but Stiles wasn’t taking any chances.

“Stiles! Stiles!” Scott yelled, running at him and, as he skidded to a halt next to him, shaking his shoulders. Stiles winced at the force of his grip; he still bore bruises from the night before. Scott was suddenly far stronger than before and couldn’t control his powers yet. Lycanthropy probably did that to people.

“Whaaaaaat?” Stiles drawled. He shook Scott off and rolled his shoulders. They cracked uncomfortably but when they settled the pulsing at the back of his skull settled. “What’s the matter, Scotty-boy?”

“She said yes!”

Stiles blinked and squinted. “You asked your mom something?”

Scott bounced on his feet. “No,” he said, breathless with joy. “Allison! She said yes! We are going on a date tonight!” Then he suddenly washed white. “Tonight. We are going on a date _tonight_.”

Barely able to grasp the monumental change in the air, Stiles snapped his jaw from the ground and stuck it back in with the rest of his mouth. “First of all, the full moon’s in a couple of days, you _can’t_ go out; you’ll endanger the whole neighbourhood! Secondly, the murders? We still don’t know if you—"

He was interrupted when Scott wailed. “I have nothing to wear!” Scott patted down his clothes, a terrified look on his face. “I can’t let her see me like this. She’ll think I’m a slob!”

“Didn’t see already see you with these—no, not important. _Scott_.” Stiles attempted to catch Scott’s sleeve but with new reflexes he managed to avoid Stiles’ Sticky Grip of Doom. “Left wrist! You know, _Allison_? Scott, Scotty-boy, soulmatey mate of mine, your _left_ wrist—”” His voice lowed to a whisper, “E-ne-my!”

But Scott just shook his head, an oblivious grin splitting his face. Just a few weeks ago that would have made Stiles feel like on top of the world, being sent that in his direction. Now, seeing it thrown at someone not even present in the hallway, gave him ominous shivers.

“I need to go. I need to shower, to change… Oh!” Scott gasped. “I need a gift!” And then he was off, running at a pace far too quick for who he had been almost sixteen years of his life.

“Where are you even meeting?!” Stiles yelled after him. And, had Scott been an ordinary human anymore, he probably wouldn’t have heard him in the midst of all the people running away from their high school responsibilities. However, since he wasn’t…

“Her parents are making me dinner!” came the cheerfully panicked reply that echoed in the hallway. People turned to look at his retreating back, puzzled and laughing at his antics.

Stiles, on the other hand, paled at the implications.

Oh shit.

***

Double oh shit, he thought after dragging the very dying Derek into his car. Scott wouldn’t answer his phone and the grumpy wolf bleeding out in his passenger seat was killing him. His dad would _freak_ if he found a dead body in his car. Oh shit, oh shit, shitshitshitshitshit—

“’m not dead yet,” Derek grumbled and immediately grunted in pain. Stiles winced, the sound hurting his ears. He fumbled with his phone again and pressed his ear against it. Please, Scott, answer me, he begged. Don’t fail me now when you haven’t before.

The phone merely beeped forlornly.

He cursed his soulmate’s stubbornness and how it sometimes came at the worst of times. Scott had the worst ideas sometimes; who else would decide they had to be in the lacrosse team with asthma as bad as _his_? True, that didn’t seem to be as much of a problem now—rather, the possibility of his supernatural reveal was due to his new unnatural talents—but that wasn’t the case in their first year, not even mentioning the last year of junior high when he _really_ got that into his head.

Scott, buddy, Stiles thought. His hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles shone white.

_Answer me._

***

They were running. Dashing. Racing. Sprinting. Going fast enough to break all of Finstock’s stupid records, all because of the stupid alpha that could be Scott’s stupid boss for all he knew and _he was getting ever closer_.

At least Lydia, Jackson, and Allison were safe now, considering it was Stiles and Scott against the madness that was the feral alpha as Derek had called it before getting skewered to hell. At least he was dead now that Scott had thrown him under the bus. Speaking of—

“That was such a bullshit move, Scotty!” Stiles screamed. Or tried to. His throat hurt from panting his breath away and barely a hoarse whisper was left. He still heard Scott’s voice echo from wherever he was; it even made the monstrosity to pause in its movements for now.

“My bad!”

Stiles doubted Scott knew what he had meant anyway. No matter. Stiles used the confusion to jump into the locker room, their official rendezvous post. He heard the alpha run past, probably to where he had heard Scott, his errant ‘beta’. Stiles snorted. Scott may be Melissa’s golden boy and Deaton’s good little pet project but submissive? That wasn’t his Scott.

And the alpha would find that out soon enough.

He readied the fire extinguisher he had taken from the wall and waited. The silence trickled by one second at a time until he started hearing running steps. He crouched, hidden in the cracks.

Scott flew inside with the massive, disfigured monster of a werewolf after him. Stiles opened fire and sprayed the agent over the alpha’s head. The monster howled, scratching at his eyes, blind for the moment. Stiles rushed out of there, Scott right behind him. They—well, Scott did—brought down a couple of lockers until it’d be nigh impossible for the werewolf to come after them.

They high fived.

“Go partner!” Scott cheered and hugged Stiles close. His strong grip and warm arms around him were a comfort Stiles hadn’t known he had missed as much as now that he had it again. He sighed, shoulders slumping momentarily. The feeling of relief disappeared almost instantly as Scott withdrew his touch. “We need to go!”

“Y-yeah!” he said. Scott took off immediately but, for some reason, Stiles gave one last look at the little window to the locker room.

Blood red eyes stared right into his.

Stiles’ breath hitched and he felt his heart pound. He swallowed. “I’m not afraid of you,” he rasped.

The eyes didn’t even blink.

Stiles looked slowly to where Scott was disappearing behind the corner and then back at the glaring murder. He blinked, breaking the spell on him, and rushed after Scott.

There was intelligence there, he thought, a little hysterically. He was not feral. That stare was not without higher functions; rather, it had looked _insanely focused_. Focus on insane. On him, on _Stiles_.

There would be no sign of him come morning.

Stiles just knew that.

***

“You must be Stiles.”

Stiles heard Derek yelling at him through his phone but didn’t register a word of it. The man, Derek’s uncle, stood in the hospital hallway, genially smiling at him, his icy blue eyes locked on him. That intensity was familiar. Too familiar.

Stiles swallowed.

“You are the alpha,” he said. The phone slipped from his grasp and he fumbled with it, Derek’s voice cut off by one clumsy press of fingers. Suddenly the hallway was oppressive in its silence.

“Clever boy.” The praise he got was accompanied with the same mild curve of mouth. It sent shivers down his back. “But Stiles isn’t your actual name, is it?”

The question raised all the red flags in Stiles’ head. There was no reason for Derek’s uncle to care about it. What was _his_ name anyway? Patrick? Pete? Pennywise? A nervous laugh bubbled in his throat.

“It wouldn’t actually be Mieczysław, now would it?”

The name was spoken like a caress. There was no hint of an accent in the pronunciation as if he had spent time practicing its spelling in front of a mirror or an actual Polish speaker or both, definitely not with the Google translate. His mouth was dry as the desert.

“Hale,” he croaked. Derek’s uncle tilted his head, the animal within him present in each move he made. “…Peter.”

His left wrist itched. He rubbed the band absently, wishing for once he didn’t know the name that lingered there. It was one thing to know that his greatest adversary would be named Peter.

…It was a whole another to see him right before him, blue melting into bright red and teeth sharpening with the nails on the hand that reached towards him.

Derek threw himself past him, sending Stiles stumbling backwards and almost trip over the unconscious body of what looked like a nurse. He hadn’t even realised they had been—he glanced at where Derek was grappling with his uncle, yelling at Stiles to go.

Stiles swallowed. His hands shook. And for once he did as he was told.

He fled.

***

If Stiles hadn’t already been suspicious of Allison’s Disney princess demeanour, he would have realised her potential for evil the moment she had talked him into becoming Lydia’s date of the evening. He had nothing against the strawberry blond goddess, except that she played this vapid school girl that was only good for what she had between her legs and didn’t take pride in the head she carried over her shoulders. Scott, on the other hand, with his easily misled heart eyes had thought the idea as perfect, even gushing about ‘double dates’. They both ignored—or were completely oblivious—to the displeasure of their corresponding best friends.

Yet they apparently were, for once, of mind in one thing: keep their friends complacent even if the winter formal would turn out to be a complete disaster otherwise.

“Can’t you stop that stupid act for even one second?” Stiles hissed as he slammed a cup of the alcohol-free punch in front of her, the same punch the coach had been guarding like it’d turn poison if he so much as turned his head. Which, granted, might happen if the numbers of heads that glanced his way said anything. There had to be at least dozen bottles hidden beneath all those puffy skirts and too long coattails.

Lydia tossed her hair and in any other situation Stiles would have called her an artist because none of the curls fell from the intricate hairdo she had put them in. However, Stiles’ nerves were on fire. He had lost sight of Scott after they had gone for the punch and now Allison had disappeared too. No, wait, she was dancing with… Jackson? He recalled something about them practicing swimming together sometimes.

That sealed it. Anyone who was friendly with someone like _Jackson_ was evil straight to their core. Including present company.

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” Lydia sniffed. She delicately took the cup meant for her and made a face as the sugary sweet smell of the stale punch reached her. She put it back down without taking a single sip.

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Stiles looked around but, nope, no Hispanic curls in sight, the right ones anyway. “This idiotic act you have, as if you only have air between your ears. As if you don’t have the highest GPA of our class if not our school. As if you didn’t skip a grade somewhere there and are a year younger than the rest of us! You could probably give us all a middle finger and graduate straight away if you so wished so I have no idea why you keep bowing down to the needs of an insecure lacrosse player who, even if he ever made professional, would never gain fame as anything but a player of the lamest sport in the US.” Stiles shook his head, glaring at the horrible lighting and the packed hall. “Fuck, I don’t get why you are friends with the Argent either. What did she even do? I don’t imagine she has anything you’d want.”

When no answer came, he turned his head to see Lydia watch her through narrowed eyes. Her carefully painted lips were turned downwards. Stiles scowled at the scrutiny, feathers ruffled, before Lydia’s mouth twitched and a smirk formed over it.

“Oh,” she breathed and then hissed, like a snake, “I think someone is jealous.”

Stiles bared his teeth at her. Lydia laughed.

“Jealous indeed. Are you afraid one little girl will take away your friend? Or soulmate, is that it?” she leaned forward over the sticky table without touching it. “Perhaps you are not enough for him anymore.” Her whispered words were poison in Stiles’ ears. “Poor itty bitty Stiles, alone again. Not even your soulmate wants to be with you.

“And, you know?” Her smirk gained a cruel twist. “He kissed me too.”

Stiles stared at her and the smug look on her face and then snorted darkly. Lydia looked almost affronted at that. “Like I care,” he said. And he didn’t, not about that. “We are platonic, so who he’s in a relationship with is none of my business and who I’m into is none of his.”

Lydia crossed her arms and demanded, “Then why?”

He owed her nothing, so he said nothing. He looked around. Allison was not there anymore and now Jackson—

“You wanted to make Jackson jealous?” he said. Lydia’s expression soured even further. “Then you got your wish, maybe. He just left the hall to the fields. I suppose you didn’t want to hear that either?”

Lydia and he eyed each other, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Then she lifted her arm, the gently chiming jewellery tight on her wrists, silently demanding him to pull her up. Stiles rolled his eyes but did as asked; despite his mouth having a life of its own, his mother would have been disappointed if he forgot his basic manners.

She gripped his arm and pulled herself next to him. Her whispered words were barely decipherable over the music.

“I’d suggest you to look at your other name, but I bet you’d end up disappointed either way.”

Then she sashayed away towards the doors Stiles had pointed out at her. He grimaced, the words curling around his neck like a noose.

She was just trying to get under his skin, he thought. He gripped his right wrist where the comforting straight lettering of Scott’s name lied.

Just under his skin.

***

Despite how things ended between Lydia and him, he didn’t want her dead. This was the only reason he agreed to follow Peter out of the winter formal, cluing him in on how they could find Derek, droplets of her blood clinging to his shirt.

“I will end you,” he swore between his teeth. Peter gave him an uninterested hum before he curved into the empty parking building.

“As you wish,” he merely said, parking Stiles’ jeep next to an unassuming car despite all the space around them and jumping out of it. Stiles followed when the red-tinted blue so demanded. Peter opened the back of the other car and took out what looked like a laptop and—

“Oh god.” Stiles gagged. The dyed red hair was unmistakeable. “Is that your _nurse_?”

Peter rolled his eyes at him. “No,” he said. “It’s the ghost of the Christmas past. What do you _think_?”

A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled up Stiles’ throat. “You can’t be funny. It’s unfair that you are funny.”

Peter almost slammed the laptop over the now closed trunk. “Find the GPS,” he growled. Stiles sprang into action but his fingers paused on the keys. He bit the insides of his cheek until he could taste the blood. “Well?”

Stiles took a breath, closed his eyes, and went with his gut. When he pressed enter, he sagged. It was correct.

“His username _and_ password is Allison?” The disgust in Peter’s voice was palpable.

“Still want him in your pack?” Stiles croaked, eyes glued unseeing on the screen even as his fingers flew over the keyboard. His heart was heavy in his chest, kept being dragged down by the poison Lydia had identified and the words she had spoken and the fear that his very own _soulmate_ was—was—even his mother had _never_ —

A hand pressed against his back, cool and warm at the same time, cutting off his thoughts. A shaky breath, in, out. In, out. In. Out. In—

He pressed a key, the final key, and Derek’s location shone bright on the screen.

“There he is,” Stiles said, voice distant even in his own ears. “You can go save him now.”

Peter gave him a look he couldn’t read. If he thought he had any emotions left, Stiles would have called it sad. However, he knew better. His wrist, _the fate itself_ , knew better… even if he was more or less at odds with the idea of a higher power dragging them into its web.

He silenced the little voice that called to him that if someone had killed his mother, father, Sc—he might have done the same. He swallowed, watching Peter crush his jeep’s keys and leave him behind in the empty lot.

Somehow it almost felt like he had crushed something else as well.

***

In the end, he burned him. He felt the pain curl around his wrist, hot like the fire before him and part of him screaming in tandem with the echoing howls.

That night when he stared at wrist, for once without the band, and thought that the name on it looked less like the scar he had seen on his father’s wrist and more of a… half-formed one, as if his destined, enemy or otherwise, hadn’t been born yet or… or wasn’t completely there.

Of course he wasn’t. Stiles killed him.

He wiped the thought from his mind and focused on the forlorn look he had seen on Scott’s face when Allison’s father dragged her away with her aunt’s corpse. Murderers, the whole family; he had seen how mad Kate had been, how vicious Allison’s mother was, how trigger-happy her father, how Allison _herself_ —

He had to do something about that before it was too late.

***

(Something inside him told him he already was.)

***

“What are _you_ doing here?” Stiles blurted out when he walked through the wrenched open door to Derek’s sad little abandoned subway station. “You are supposed to be dead.”

Peter’s brows lifted, elegant sarcasm written in them like art. “Why,” the vision before him said, now less imaginary and more horrifying reality, “It almost seems you are not happy to see me.”

Of course he wasn’t, he wanted to scream at him, but then Peter’s eyes narrowed on his face. Stiles took a step back, his grip on Lydia’s hand tightening. She hissed, torn between tearing Stiles a new one and—wait, no, she was glaring at Peter instead. Score.

“The lovely girl behind you generously resurrected me,” Peter said airily and, this time, it was Stiles’ turn to look incredulously at Lydia. “But more importantly, what happened to _you_?”

Stiles waved him off. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Lydia, _really_?”

“You try being possessed and unable to control your actions,” she spat at him. He scratched his chin.

“That’d do it,” he conceded. He turned back to Peter. “Is Derek here?”

Peter gave an exaggerated look around the empty lair because it really couldn’t be called anything more than that. “Does it look like he is?”

Stiles rubbed the skin between his eyes, pretty much the only part of him that still didn’t hurt. “Great,” he mumbled. “The Beacon Hills alpha unaccounted, check. Two of his betas at the Argents, check. The former BH BS alpha resurrected, check. People dying left and right, Jackson a murderous lizard, Grandpa Argent the headmaster and Allison gone mad after her mother died for… reasons. What else?”

“McCall unaccounted for, all the Argents unaccounted for,” Lydia helpfully—not—continued. She pinched him and he yelped. “Someone promising to _take me to Jackson_ , check.”

“Right, sorry, pitstop. Been not nice, let’s not meet again, Pete.”

“Peter.”

Stiles grimaced and winced as it stretched the wound on his cheek. He felt more than saw the burning eyes on it. “Yeah, whatever.”

“I do know your GPA is rather high, Mieczysław,” Peter said, voice practically a purr. It sent shivers down Stiles’ spine. “You should be able to read a five-letter word covering your skin.”

“We are leaving,” Stiles announced and pulled Lydia along. Since Derek wasn’t here, he probably was heading for whatever rendezvous point they had—thank fuck for GPS.

They were back in his jeep when Lydia spoke up carefully. “You have shit luck with soulmates, Stilinski.”

He wrinkled his nose. “Shut up, monster fucker. Let’s go save your lizard love.”

She punched him straight in the bruise in his arm. It hurt. He probably deserved it. He tossed her his phone with the map open.

“Just for that I’m driving by the speed limits.”

“I’ll skin you alive.”

Stiles hit the gas and they sped through the mostly abandoned streets. Lydia’s grip on her seat was whiter than her face, her eyes glued on their little blob on the screen.

“Roger.”

***

Stiles slumped against his wheel and hid his eyes from the world, not that anyone was there to see them. Lydia had saved Jackson with her love of all things—Jesus, she knew what love _was_?—while Scott’s brilliant, brilliant master plan was all about forcing Derek to bite the Argent crazy. Hopefully the poor sod didn’t get infected with whatever was in their blood, he’d bet that was _nasty_. But then the other madness happened, grandpa started puking tar or whatever and disappeared, Derek disappeared—not that Stiles blamed him, after all he told him where his betas had been and he thought there had been gratefulness in that gruff grunt of his—and then, suddenly, Stiles was alone. No idea where the rest of them ran off to, where Scott—

He probably left with Allison. Again.

Stiles rubbed his right wrist, troubled. He chewed his bottom lip, head still pillowed on his steering wheel. His baby needed a repair job. The wall hadn’t been kind to her when he had run through it. Maybe if he pitched it in the right way, he could get Lydia—

He snorted. Who was he kidding? She didn’t owe him shit, not after everything. He’d have to explain his dad he ran into a pole or something. He ran his fingers over the clutch. He imagined a smaller hand than his but just as pale touching it, switching gears and feeling the engine purr in response.

He missed his mom.

The trunk was popped open and Stiles raised his head, blearily trying to see who was trying to break into his car. Something heavy was dropped inside, jostling the car a bit with the force of the throw, and slammed closed again. He followed the figure with his eyes until the door to the passenger’s side opened and Peter slid in like he owned the damn thing.

“What the hell,” he asked dryly. Literally. His voice was barely more than a rasp.

“I thought we should get rid of the problem before it started sprouting like a damn weed,” Peter said, prim and proper, despite fitting a curse word in between like it belonged there. Stiles wiped his face and groaned.

“Do you not know English?” His head flopped back on the wheel. “I don’t want to see you.”

“You actually never said that.” Peter’s response gained something akin to amusement in its tone. Stiles flipped him the bird.

“It was implied, jackass.”

“And here I was, generously taking care of the one thing that’s still tainting the soil in Beacon Hills. Literally.”

One could never say Stiles was slow. He lifted his head, staring dead in the cold blues of Peter’s.

“Did you just put Gerard Argent’s body in my trunk?”

“I wonder.”

“It is a simple yes or no question, Peter.”

“Ah, so you do remember my name. I’m glad.” Peter even sounded glad, delighted even, the ass. “Will you help me get rid of it? You do have awfully lot of his blood in your car now.”

“You put it there!”

“And I can remove it and get your dear little jeep in working condition in less than five days.”

Stiles opened his mouth, thought better of it, and then closed. He watched Peter through narrowed eyes.

“Make it three and we are talking. More than that and my father will start asking questions.”

Peter’s smile, which, granted, was more a smirk than an actual, honest-to-God smile, turned what Stiles could only describe as smarmy.

“I suppose we have a deal then.” He offered his hand and mocked, teeth showing. “Shall we shake hands?”

Stiles looked at him, then his hand, and then back at him. While staring into his eyes, he lifted his hand, spat on it, and quickly took Peter’s hand into his and _squeezed_. He felt the spit squirt between them. Peter’s horrified, offended look was worth the next words that came out of his mouth.

“Deal. Now show me where to hide the body.”

“Not hide, sweetheart.” Peter’s smile was plastered back on his face even as he wiped his hand on Stiles’ seat rather than… were those pants designer? They fit almost uncomfortably snug. No matter, the seat will get cleaned anyway, this was _not_ the hill he wanted to die on. “Destroy.”

Stiles snorted and started the car. It spluttered a bit, the poor engine, but obediently puttered on.

“Even better.”

***

Gerard Argent burned in the ashes of those he had tried to burn himself through his daughter. No evidence of him was left on the earth. His casket would forever stay empty.

Kate Argent was not in her coffin either. No evidence of her lingered there despite her beautiful open casket ceremony when Stiles went to hide the ashes inside it.

Well, shit.

***

“We are leaving.”

Stiles stared at Derek, sucking his lips in when the werewolf actually managed to make the caterpillars over his eyes bend into a somewhat sorry look. He bent his neck, to see where Isaac, Erica, and Boyd—the latter two whom he had helped find and rescue from this weird little cell inside the old bank—stood by Derek’s car, now less flashy and more of a soccer mom car.

“Don’t they have school?”

“Don’t you worry about us,” Erica chirped, voice cheerful despite the deathly pale tone of her skin. “We’ll manage.”

“I’m sure you will, Catwoman.” His eyes slid to the curly-haired boy next to her. “I’m not so sure about Anger Angel there.”

Isaac bared his teeth at him. Cute.

“It’s just,” Derek said. His face did something very complicated, something Stiles couldn’t follow or recognise. He sighed.

“I get it, dude. Don’t worry your head over it.” With Kate probably alive somewhere, the weird pack of only alphas lurking around and all the rest… “This hellhole seems to attract all kinds of crazies and if I were an alpha, a real alpha, I’d run over the hills and far, far away as soon as I could.”

“Why don’t you?” Boyd rumbled. He had been quiet since they had rescued him and Erica, or at least when Stiles had been present.

Stiles shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant about it. “I have my dad.” And then, more a habit than anything else, he added, “And Scott.”

The distaste that spread over Derek’s face couldn’t have been hidden even if Stiles had been born blind. He waved his hand.

“Yeah, yeah. I know, man.”

Because he did. And he had expressed his own displeasure—and given an apology though it wasn’t his to give—to Derek multiple times when they tracked down Erica and Boyd’s trail with… Peter. His eyes slid to the spot where Peter had usually sprawled on with his back against the wall and eyes on every escape route possible. When he looked back at Derek, there was another of his complicated browsy brows situations going on.

“He’s staying, you know.”

Stiles blinked. “Who? Peter?” Derek nodded. “Why? Weren’t things going better with you?”

He knew the answer to that, of course. While things had been quite difficult and, dare he say, growly between them, they had made a few overtures of making up and-slash-or starting anew, carefully leaving out the shitty parts for later to sort out. From what Stiles had heard, Peter really had been insane before his death and hadn’t just seemed like it. It did kind of explain a few things about him; not excused, merely explained.

Besides, he and Derek had duked it out until nearly to the point of kill-mode. If not for Isaac—

At least Stiles now had practical experience with making bodies disappear instead of just reading about it in the dark nights of insomnia land.

Derek grunted and pushed something into Stiles’ hand. It was a small piece of paper with a woman’s name and a phone number, very business-like. He flipped it around, seeing another number written down on it, this time in Derek’s handwriting.

“Who’s the chick?” he asked.

“My… soulmate,” Derek said quietly. Stiles’ eyes flashed to Derek’s wrists before he guiltily looked back up. The painful-looking grit of Derek’s teeth made Stiles’ own hurt. “Peter found her. She’ll… be waiting for us in New York.”

Something heavy thudded in Stiles’ chest.

“Oh.” Then he smiled. “I’m happy for you.” And he meant it.

The beginning of the shy, almost abashed, look was quickly wiped from Derek’s face when he turned his face around, staring at the barebones of his family home. His ears were still dipped in red.

“Get in the car,” he grunted. Erica hooted at him and Boyd dragged her with him. Isaac hesitated but then waved at Stiles once half-heartedly and followed his packmates. When the doors slammed closed, Derek’s shoulders slumped momentarily before his pose straightened again. “My… new number is on the card. We have a place already but... There is room so… if you ever need…” he trailed off.

Stiles felt a lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he croaked. He coughed. “I’ll miss your grumpy face, big guy. Take care of them, won’t you?”

“I’ll… do my best.”

The punch Stiles bopped against Derek’s arm was light but it still felt like he was hitting pure concrete of muscle. “You already are. Just don’t get too lost in your head. You have my number programmed in your new, fancy phone, don’t you?” Derek nodded. “Cool. Coolcoolcoolcool. Then just hit your speed dial and I’ll answer. Anytime.”

The little not-smile flashed across Derek’s face. “Even during chemistry?”

Stiles groaned. “ _Especially_ during chemistry.”

Derek’s strong hand pressed against the nape of his neck, just holding him there. He squeezed, once, and turned around, walking to his car. Stiles fidgeted, tugging on his sleeve, before he plastered a smile on his face and waved them off until he could no longer see the mom car and the Hale pack leaving their past behind. His feet dragged himself back to his own trusty, clunky Roscoe. Hand on the handle, he gave one last look at the dark husk of what amounted to a haunted house. He shivered.

He drove home alone.

***

_But I had you before._

Stiles sat with his head between his legs. His breath felt heavy, like someone was pressing against his chest and holding him captive under water.

_But I had you before._

The clock ticked. The leak of their faucet dimed each twelfth second. The window creaked with the wind.

_But I had you before._

“And you still got me,” Stiles whispered. His words were choked and wet. In his mind he saw Scott, smiling bright and eager, the way they had been before their second year of high school.

Scott still had him, that much was true…

_But I had you before._

…but did Stiles still have him?

***

Immediately after Stiles felt himself being grabbed at, he made a move to throw his assailant over his shoulder. What he, unfortunately, felt was an immovable object made flesh and he blanched at the idea of trying that against a werewolf. His heart picked up in speed and the little bird caged inside his chest attempted to flee. Only when he was dragged close to the creature in question did he smell the familiar cologne and felt the surprisingly soft goatee tickle the back of his neck which instantly made him relax ever so slightly.

“Don’t struggle,” Peter breathed into his ear. It felt weirdly sensual and sent pleasant shivers down Stiles’ back. “One of the alphas is following you.”

And there that last shred of peace went. Stiles bit his lip so he wouldn’t make a noise. He tapped the hand resting on his shoulder, keeping him close, in a steady pattern.

“Clever boy,” was sent his way and the skin scratched by the beard was hotter than the rest of him. “The woman. She even put shoes on this time though she doesn’t look none too pleased. Not surprising, they aren’t even Italian leather.”

Stiles couldn’t help it. He snorted. There was a break in his tapping but he quickly resumed with another comment. Peter was quiet for a moment but, when he directed them into a restaurant, he said, “Perhaps if she cut her toenails.”

Which Stiles doubted. They were part of her look as a madwoman running from the mental facility. When the hostess was making their way towards them, Stiles realised they were inside the fanciest restaurant in the whole town which, naturally, wasn’t much on the scale but it definitely was too much for his wallet… or his dad’s. Peter’s grip, however, turned impossible to break.

“Mr. Hale,” the hostess greeted warmly. “I heard you were back.”

“Ah, Evelyn,” Peter replied with a charming—holy fuck—smile. “I was hoping you were still working here.”

The woman let out a laugh like a chime. “And where would I go? This is my baby and you weren’t here to whisk me away.”

“Alas, you were already taken by the time I was granted the wonder that was your presence,” he lamented. His grip on Stiles eased and made for a more casual though it was still strong enough to keep him still. “Would you have a table for two? I promised to show Mr. Stilinski how fine dining worked and I couldn’t think of a better establishment in our town.”

“Flatterer,” Evelyn accused but gestured them to follow her. “Luckily for you, I have your table free. It has, unfortunately, found others to occupy itself during cold nights, but if you are planning to stay longer, I can reserve it for you and only you again.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She led them to a small table near the back, just behind the curtains that no one could see the happenings but close enough to hear if someone was making their way there. “Now,” she said while they were sitting down, “can I bring you anything while you consider your order? Our menu has changed some, Mr. Hale, but we can still make your favourites if you wish.”

“I think I and my friend here will have whatever your husband would recommend I try.” He sent another smile her way and waved away the menu she offered. “Thank you, Evelyn.”

She playfully curtseyed. “I’ll be right back.”

Stiles stared at her retreating back and then hissed, “What the hell, Peter?”

“She would have followed you to either home, to your father, or both.” Peter examined their surroundings, making a face at a few décor choices before sighing. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

“What does she want with _me_?” Stiles shook his head. “I’m the human!”

“And Scott is puffing his chest like he’s the alpha now that Derek’s gone and the rumours have that you are his weak link.” To which Peter snorted derisively. “They would have more luck with little miss Argent at this rate, wouldn’t they, Stiles?”

Stiles hissed and made a move to stand. Peter’s hand was instantly on his and holding him captive. “Don’t bring him into this,” he snarled.

Peter eyed him, tilting his head like a predator examining his prey. Stiles’ fingers itched to throw the stash of mountain ash he had in his pocked at him and see if that would make him look as smug.

“And how often has he been by your side these past couple of months, Stiles?” Peter asked silkily. Stiles bit his lip and they both knew the answer without saying it out loud.

After Derek left, Scott had become somehow even more involved in Allison’s batshit crazy train—all courtesy of her batshit crazy family, must be something in the water. Scott kept insisting that she was just grieving and kept spending more and more time with her despite the disgust she sometimes looked at his werewolf side with. That same prejudice was also drawing a wedge between herself and Lydia when Lydia insisted on keeping in contact with her lizard love. All Stiles knew of that was the occasional complain Lydia murmured under her breath. Jackson was gone from the current scene too and Stiles had badgered Danny enough to find out that he was spending an exchange year in the UK. Considering the previous events, Stiles would bet his jeep that he had found himself a lizard guru or something. Correction, Lydia founded him. It was all the same anyway.

“And that matters how?” he asked instead of answering. It was less of a snap he had meant it as and more of a genuine question. Which, to Peter, was more of an answer than anything he probably could have given. For some reason Peter was able to read him like no one ever had.

“I am not your enemy, Stiles,” Peter said gently. And that, right there, was something Stiles didn’t know how to take and something that had plagued his mind more and more lately. Because if he wasn’t—

Stiles’ eyes dragged to the deliciously smelling food that Evelyn set before them. He picked up his fork, absently following Peter’s instructions on fine dining as they kept up their cover in case of eavesdroppers.

It tasted like ash in his mouth.

***

They ended up going out more often after that. When Scott asked about it, Stiles said he was keeping his eyes on him to which Scott merely clapped his back and praised his efforts to their pack. Their pack. What pack, Stiles wanted to ask, because they had none. They had one wolf who strayed towards those who hunted his kind and his human tagalong. Lydia didn’t belong to their group, only deeming it worth her while to spend time with them when Allison was around or she found Stiles alone to be her homework buddy. Danny strayed away from them all after the whole Jackson thing and he had never been part of them anyway. Anyone else? Isaac, Erica and Boyd had always been a separate entity and they had left too.

He of course said nothing to that, only smiled and nodded.

When Lydia asked, Stiles told her the truth.

“Fake dating?” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Are you stupid?”

“It’s saved my ass four times now,” he replied. And it kept his father safe. After Peter had ‘claimed’ Stiles for his own, the alpha pack had begun leaving them alone. No longer did anyone stalk the Sheriff of Beacon Hills nor his wayward, ADHD-ridden kid with poor impulse control. Well, the latter didn’t hold much truth anymore; Stiles had grown warier as of late and less likely to act on instinct alone. Oh, he did that too, his mouth being one of the things he had no real control over… but the rest?

If only he hadn’t rushed to the woods in search of a body.

Lydia gave him a long look, too long to be comfortable, and sighed. She flipped her hair, today in a fancy braid with pearls woven into it, and picked up her homework again.

“You’ll end up falling for him,” she told him. She pulled her pen from her purse and started to loop her handwriting into mathematical art. Stiles lowered his eyes back to the biology book and jiggled his leg.

He was afraid she was right.

(He was afraid he wanted her to be right.)

***

“…and then she asked me if there was a problem,” Peter ended with a flourish. Stiles wasn’t able to contain his laughter, their spot in the diner booming with it. It was one of his and his father’s regular joints and, after three weeks of running around ‘dating’—or exchanged education in matters of good food and stories amidst actual strategy to rid themselves of the alpha pests and other threats to their persons—he felt confident enough to bring Peter to where they were now. He had no doubt that the word would go out and his dad would be informed of him hanging out with a man almost twice his age. Yet, considering Scott and he hadn’t visited together in months… well.

“She really did that?” he asked after his cheer was down to a manageable level. He shook his head. “Derek is going to have his hands full with that woman.”

“I did have to bribe her to stay put until they reached her,” Peter admitted. He popped one of the curly fries in his mouth, immediately wiping the extra grease off his fingers with a napkin. “But Braeden may look tough on the outside but from what I found she has a soft spot for strays. Which is the opposite to Kate of which I am very thankful of. I would rather have him safe in her grasp than where he was the object of the hunt.”

“Braeden knows how to make people disappear, doesn’t she?”

“In many ways, both dead and alive.”

Stiles took a sip of his chocolate shake. “I’m glad,” he said then, thinking of the card he carried inside his wallet, the sweetness of the sugar coating his taste buds. “When he was here… it was no good for him.”

“It is no good for any of us.”

Stiles peered at Peter but for once his eyes were avoided. His eyes fell on the uncovered wrists; Peter had never bothered hiding them under bands such as the majority did, even if he did prefer long-sleeved shirts. A woman’s name peeked out, one that Stiles had managed to figure out immediately after seeing the first two letters.

“Your sister?”

Peter snorted derisively. He wiped his hands in the napkin again as if to wash away the taint mere mention of her name brought.

“Stubborn little bitch,” he said, tone hinting both anger, grief and fondness. “Always had to be right in everything.”

Stiles nudged his foot, bringing his attention back to himself. “Sounds like someone I know.”

The napkin was thrown in his face. Stiles smirked but then the corners of his lips were pulled down. He traced Peter’s hand and pushed through his own doubts and regret insisting that he let their past grown silent with the rot between them.

“I killed you.”

Peter stared straight at him, the amused little tilt of his chin and sad twitch of his mouth forming such a multi-faceted look the likes of which Stiles had never seen on anyone else before.

“So did she.”

***

Their scars were invisible.

Their smiles were wary and fake.

They hated being alone but seemed to end up that way anyway.

They had lost too many, too quickly.

Their wits were lightning tangled.

They had too much in common to ever be indifferent to each other.

His lips looked soft.

And Stiles was in too deep.

***

“I’m afraid.”

Lydia watched him pace in his room, managing to perfect a sort of an elegant sprawl on his chair that he wouldn’t have been able to make his limbs form.

“I am so, so afraid,” Stiles repeated. Saying the words out loud did nothing to the fear and anxiety that twisted his innards. He hated this feeling; it was worse than he had ever felt before. Nothing compared. It was worse than the fear his mother had instilled in him during her periods of madness, worse than when Allison had arrived, when they had faced Peter in _his_ madness, when the police station was attacked, when Scott—

“And?” Lydia asked primly. “What are you going to do about it?”

Stiles stared at his uncovered wrists. The letters that formed the names were both stark black on his skin, the cursive and simple handwriting in a battle of contrast the like their owners were in real life.

“I killed him,” he said, staring at Peter’s name. Switching to Scott’s, he frowned harder.

“And you gave your all to someone who doesn’t appreciate it.”

“He appreciates it!” Stiles immediately answered, and automatic response, and then he paused. Winced. Lydia nodded and said nothing. It said everything.

“How did you know it was Jackson?” He turned to face her, unable to keep his face straight. His soul was bared the way his wrists were. No longer was he hiding either. He wasn’t going to turn his face away from the facts… that he knew. And those he didn’t.

Lydia rolled her neck in an exaggerated motion. She lifted her hand, tilting it so Stiles was able to read the text on it. Jackson’s name read in sharp-lined letters, only curving with the rounded c and o. Yet the longer Stiles stared at it, the longer the lettering seemed… lifeless. Almost not there despite all evidence of its existence.

“It’s a tattoo,” Lydia said matter-of-factly. She pulled her arm back and traced the skin there. “I’m a blank.”

Stiles blinked once, twice. Then again for good measure. “And Jackson?”

“Has Lydia written on his wrist.” She glanced at him. “Along with Danny.”

He couldn’t help his staring. Lydia rolled her eyes.

“We chose each other,” she said. “That Lydia is never going to be me but we decided I would be her anyway. He’s never going to trust another Lydia the way he does me. But his soulmate is, and always will be, Danny.”

She stood up from her seat, just as sharp as the lettering on her wrist. The other one was hidden with a carefully placed watch and accessories.

“You make what you can with the names on your skin,” Lydia said, both condescending and… was that wistfulness hiding underneath it? She poked Stiles’ chest, the jewelry surrounding the watch chiming gently with the movement. “I still maintain you got the shitty hand. I wouldn’t want either of those people anywhere near me the way you seem to.”

“Hey,” Stiles protested weakly but one glare of hers and he was silenced again.

“You are too focused on the literal there. Think for once, Stilinski. What do _you_ want?” She poked him again, pressing against just below his collarbone and he winced at the pressure put there. When she moved her finger, his chest stung with the pain. “And I’m not talking about what your head says because you’ll get stuck with your ever-spiraling preset. Fate is what you make it.”

With a twist of her ponytail, she turned away from him, took her purse, and left with one last comment thrown over her shoulder:

“With what you know, where do _you_ want to be?”

***

That night Stiles laid awake and thought of her words. He didn’t know, not exactly, where he wanted to head towards but his resolve held. He wasn’t going to be stuck in this hole. He would crawl out of it even if he had to battle against fate itself.

_Fate is what you make it._

Stiles let his arms fall onto his covers with a soft thud.

Well. In that case, he’d better start climbing.

***

“They found Cora.”

Stiles blinked, turning to look at Peter. “Cora?” he repeated, going over names inside the archives of his memory. “Cora… Hale? Your niece?”

Peter inclined his head, soft joy filling his features. Stiles’ heart skipped a beat.

“Braeden tracked her down somewhere in New Mexico. She was coming to Beacon Hills but…”

“Thankfully she didn’t manage that.” Truly. Stiles and Peter had managed to kill the alpha woman, name still missing, and there had been strange, ritualistic murders happening around them that had taken the huge one with them. Only the weird twins and their leader, Deucalion, were left.

Though the last murder had been their substitute English teacher and that had been a week ago, far too long for the pattern. He suspected strongly that the two were connected but, now, it was unlikely that they would get a confirmation of that.

The dead did not talk.

“Indeed.”

“Are you going to see her?”

A flash of what looked like regret crossed Peter’s features. “Not yet.”

Stiles nodded, considered it for a moment, and then said, “Peter.” The man in question tilted his head ever so slightly to indicate he was listening. The sunset was beautiful from where they were watching it on the cliff that overlooked Beacon Hills.

“Why do you stay?”

“It is my family land,” Peter answered easily. It was too casual. Stiles leaned forward to rest his arms on his pulled-up knees.

“That you hate.”

“I do not hate it.”

“But you hate the memories.”

“Well,” Peter said. “No one is perfect.”

Stiles turned his head to watch the light dance on Peter’s features and the invisible traces of marks caused by others. By himself too. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if his touch would be unwelcome, but lifted his hand to follow tracks of tears Peter would not shed. The slight widening of his eyes was the only sign that Peter was surprised by the gesture. Yet he did not move and thus Stiles had his answer.

“You…” Stiles trailed off, coughed to hide the flush that tried to swallow his cheeks, and resolutely stared ahead again, even as he forcefully grabbed Peter’s hand and held it with whitened knuckles. His heart was running, keeping up with a desperate pace towards the unknown. “Let me know you. Please.”

Fingers gentled his hold until they crossed with his and squeezed. He squeezed back.

“With pleasure.”

***

They actually started dating. It didn’t change a thing on how they acted previously with how Peter kept being the courteous asshole he always was and Stiles the sarcastic snark master he had never bothered to hide he was. They spent time together about the same amount as before which Stiles now realised was a few hours almost every day; the time he used to spend with Scott was now slowly being filled with Peter instead.

Of course, Lydia, with her queenly attitude and sometimes antagonistic remarks, claimed part of that time to herself and Peter was nowhere welcome around her—yet, but Stiles was warming her up to the idea—and along with her came Danny. He had surprisingly a lot of fun with them both, finally given permission to look behind the facades they presented themselves as. He had pegged Lydia years ago but even then he was surprised how sharp she actually was. And Danny…

Well. It now made sense how someone like Danny was Jackson’s counterpart, for better or worse.

It was one of these days when Stiles was hanging out with Peter in his room, comparing the bestiary Stiles had copied from Allison—when she was none the wiser and focused on her current episode of on-and-off drama with Scott—to the one Peter had taken from the vault underneath their school—which, what?—when Lydia burst into his room, threw down her expensive designer bag full of books by the sound it made when it hit the floor, and practically threw herself into his chair with all of her precise and practiced grace.

“I am going to graduate early,” she announced. Stiles blinked, nonplussed, and looked next to him where Peter looked far less surprised.

“You have the brain for that,” Peter answered. Lydia sent him a dirty look and sniffed but didn’t otherwise deride his input. Considering it was a compliment—and Peter _had_ spent a month or two living inside her head, now that he thought of it—perhaps it was not so surprising after all.

Stiles placed a mark on the book on his lap and closed it. “What happened?”

“One of the alphas is sniffing after me,” Lydia complained. “One of the twins, I don’t even know which. The other one tried to go after Danny—something about a Daniel being on his wrist—but he wasn’t sure if he was his Ethan. In any case, even if that was, Danny is Jackson’s. I’m thinking about arranging him to leave this hellhole too; it’s no good for his complexion anyway.”

“Danny… Is he the Hawaiian?” Peter asked, stroking his goatee in thought. “The hacker.”

Lydia glared at Stiles who waved his hands in a sign of surrender. “I told him only in case we all go missing or something,” he said. “He’s up-to-date with the GPS and all now but computer science is not his forte.”

Peter huffed. “Rude. I am perfect in everything.”

“Of course you are,” Stiles replied without batting an eye, his focus on Lydia. “Do you want protection?”

“I can handle myself,” she snapped. “What I want is them gone. What makes disposing them so hard?!”

“When the resident druid is hoarding his material and the only other werewolf in town is basically in cahoots with the hunters, it’s not so easy.” Peter closed his book too. “None of us is an alpha either. If you were able to steal some of the Argents’ wolfsbane bullets, the situation might be different.”

“You want me to trick Allison and steal her collection.” Lydia didn’t sound impressed. “What, do you want her gun too?”

“Nah, I have my own. Well, I have my dad’s collection, which is quite extensive. Mostly due to my grandfather who was and is a nut.” Stiles stood up and stretched, popping his shoulders. He was a little stiff. He glanced at the clock, realising he and Peter had been making plans for three hours already. His dad would be over in less than an hour. “I could show you if you wanted to get the bullets.”

“You know how to shoot?” Lydia demanded. Stiles shrugged.

“I’m the Sheriff’s kid with a bad case of curiosity. I’ve known how to handle a gun since I was about this height.” He made a show of putting his hand at his hip.

Lydia snorted. “Fine,” she decided. “I’ll do it.” She grabbed her bag again and with surprising show of strength swung it over her shoulder. She glanced at Stiles before directing her glare on Peter.

“I can kill you in seven different ways with my heels only,” she chirped pleasantly and flounced out of the room. Stiles blinked, turning his head to look at Peter.

“How come she isn’t the one on your wrist again?” he asked.

Peter shrugged, pulling his book open again. “Because she and I understand each other,” he said mildly. “Or she attempts to, so she’ll never be put into the same position again. Talia did not want to make the effort and thus we clashed. Had she not… well. I suspect she would still be alive.” A wry, even somewhat sad smile made its way on his face. “I always did have my suspicion on Derek’s change of attitude. The only reason I survived that night was because I spent the evening tracking him.”

Oh.

“Oh,” Stiles said. The more he heard of Talia, the more he disliked her. She may have been a good mom, maybe even an alpha—Derek certainly seemed to still adore the idea of her and attempted to emulate her as much as he could with his trauma-coloured memories—but she certainly was not a good sister. He couldn’t help but wonder how much schism that must have caused, for her to bear her brother’s name and vice versa, how much perhaps people had wanted them to work out, put pressure on them, on her—

He shook his head.

“So,” he said. “We are getting bullets. How do we best make a trap for them?”

“That depends on the gun.”

“So five times five?”

Peter hummed. “I guess that would cover most of the scenarios,” he admitted. There was something soft in his eyes when they fell on how their legs were pressed together, had been the whole time Lydia was there. “Even with variations, there are only so many choices people make when cornered… power-mad wolves even less so.”

“Speaking from experience?” Stiles teased lightly. Peter hummed, scouring the book to show a similar form to the one that he once inhabited. Having read the same page six times, Stiles couldn’t imagine the pain of broken bonds and grief-twisted-madness that would make one forget how their own niece looked and smelled like.

“Something like that.”

Stiles knocked their shoulders together, closing the book and tossing it on the bed with his, and they sat there together until they heard Stiles’ dad return home from work.

***

Stiles fingered the bullets on his pocket, sample pieces Lydia had nicked to test on the guns his dad owned, as he listened to Scott jabber about one thing or another. Truth to be told, Stiles no longer had any idea if he was talking about lacrosse, Allison, or the grades which were barely holding onto a C average; the topics always stayed the same these days with no variation except the occasional complain about Derek or Peter. They no longer hit the subjects that they both were passionate about; the new Marvel and DC movies, the games that they used to play together, or even the dreams they used to have about going to the same university, living in the same apartment, just living the life. He wondered if Scott even remembered their plans anymore.

“What are you going to do tonight?” he asked. “We haven’t been hanging out much lately.”

Try at all. Since that one lacrosse practice at the start of the summer, Scott had basically disappeared from his radar except during class.

“I’m helping our mom,” Scott said, smiling. “Me and Allison, we are going to make her dinner. She’s been so tired with the hospital work piling up and all that we want to help out even a little. Listen, did you know Allison has never had tamales?” His chest puffed a little. “I’m going to show her to make them!”

“That’s great.” Melissa was just as overworked as his dad. With everything going on, the supernatural causes had only brought more on top of the usual amount which had already been piled on. “What about tomorrow?”

“Allison is helping me study. I feel like I get more when she tries to explain? I mean, you are great too but there’s just something about her voice that—”

“Weekend?”

Scott blinked, taken aback with the unintentionally sharp tone, and then bashfully rubbed the back of his head. “I’m going out of town. Mom is working the whole weekend and I don’t want to be a bother when she’s resting, so Mr. Argent is taking Allison and me camping.” He actually looked contrite. “Sorry, Stiles. Everything is just… yeah.”

Stiles felt the strain trying to keep the smile on his face. Camping had been their thing. When his dad had had a rare weekend off, they used to go out and spend a night in the preserve. His dad liked to fish though he wasn’t any good at it, not like his mom, and he and Scott used to run around. Their stomping probably wasn’t helping to catch the fish, but his dad had never complained.

“It’s cool,” Stiles said. He clapped Scott’s back and received a beaming smile back. “Hit me up soon, though. You’ve yet to beat my record on CoD.”

“I’ll do it one day!” Scott promised. His phone beeped and, with a quick glance, he stuffed it away. “Ah, Allison is waiting for my by the store. I’m going to jog there so she doesn’t have to wait for long. They say it’s supposed to rain soon so…”

“Yeah, yeah.” Stiles waved it off. “I’ll see you, buddy.”

With one last wave, Scott sprinted past him. He probably didn’t even register how abnormally fast he was going. The bullets felt heavy inside Stiles’ pocket, almost as heavy as the heart inside his chest.

He turned from the corner and disappeared from sight.

***

“What are you doing?”

Stiles startled and fumbled with the handgun he had just taken out of his dad’s safe. He twisted around, smile plastered on his face.

“Dad!” he chirped. “I didn’t know you were home!”

“I told you a week ago that Marty wanted to switch shifts,” his dad said slowly, eyeing Stiles’ hands. He looked down to see what was so interesting. Oh. The gun. He laughed nervously. His dad didn’t seem too impressed. “Stiles?”

“Yes, dad? Daddio? Father dearest?”

“Alright, you can stop now. Why do you have my gun?”

“I, uh. Wanted to see it?” Stiles asked more than stated. Shit, that’s not convincing. “Just making sure they will shine like a diamond if you ever need them? It. You need it. Because I am only holding one. Looking at one. I mean.”

His dad stared at him. Then he sighed. “The truth, Stiles. Now.”

“I’m going to help my maybe-definitely-soulmate kill three supernaturally-powered egomaniacs who may or may not be, emphasis on _may_ , be connected to the weird murders we had going on for a while and then, just, whoosh? Ended?”

His dad actually slapped a hand over his face and motioned with his other one to put the gun back. Reluctantly, Stiles did, and he followed his dad to the kitchen where a whiskey bottle was taken out and taken a shot out of before they both sat down at the table.

“Maybe-soulmate means he is not Scott or you would have said his name. Is Peter the man you have been seen around the diner? More importantly, wouldn’t he have been your other counterpart?”

Stiles scratched his cheek and looked away. He confessed quietly, “I thought so too at first. But then Scott started changing and I started changing and… I really think he’s it, dad. He _gets_ me.”

“And Scott doesn’t.”

Stiles thought back when things had been good, when everything seemed perfect, and—

“No,” he said slowly, mind on all the times when they just went with the flow without any conflict nor excitement. There was no challenge, nothing to see or feel, only… only boredom, now that he had met someone with the same spark— “No, I don’t think he does.”

Because Scott would love a house with white picket fence and a dog—well, he was the dog now—and two point five kids, with someone to come home to. Which isn’t bad, of course. But the more Stiles thought about it, the more he realised that, even as platonic soulmates, the whole idea felt more _stiffening_ now.

How hadn’t he realised it before? Had he been so blind to it, latching onto the idea of ‘Mr. Right’ so that he had someone who wouldn’t ever leave him behind? And he had, Scott had. And now Stiles… he had been forced to grow without him. There had been no one to hold him back, keep him in line…

And Stiles liked the person he was now. He was rougher, had sharper edges and a blend of cynicism and optimism that tasted more bitter than the flavour of vanilla and chocolate that was all Scott. He may have been happy had the bite not come between them. Because the bite changed Scott, it changed Stiles. They were no longer the people they used to be. And that was fine. But maybe that also meant that they both started veering towards left instead of right, so they no longer were puzzle that fit together with their new jagged edges.

_Fate is what you make it._

Stiles sighed. He squared his shoulders and looked at his dad. Noah seemed to see his resolve, so he pushed his glass away.

And Stiles talked. He told his dad everything, from the night they went to look for Laura Hale’s body, from the bite to the turning, the Argents, the Hales, Scott, Allison, Peter—his voice choked for a moment but he resolutely continued. He had made mistakes and he would make it up to him for as long as lived. But Peter lived and the fire had ended the madness that the fire had begun. This was the Peter that Stiles was proud to have on his wrist.

Because this Peter was his, with the same sharp edges and hopeful wariness. Stiles knew Peter was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For Stiles to realise he was wrong and go back to Scott, that this was just momentary shift of loyalties. But Stiles was now in the middle of the grey tones whereas Scott danced on top of the black and white board. Stiles was already on the side, a piece removed, an afterthought.

_But I already had you._

And neither of us made any effort, the way you do for Allison. The way I do for Peter. And that’s the difference between you and me, Scott. You chose your fate, the Juliet to your Romeo, leaving Mercutio aside. And I’m not for that. I deserve that too, Scott. And maybe it will crash and burn, for both of us, like it did in the play. Maybe we are both wrong.

But it is my choice to make.

When Stiles finally stopped his voice had grown hoarse and the greedily drank the mug his father had got him. The water was cool and perfect as it sated his thirst.

His father was quiet. The glass before him was still half-full, the liquid warming in the heat of the room. The clock on the wall ticked away, becoming one with the beats of Stiles’ heart as it pounded in his ears. Finally, after what felt like years, his father moved.

He reached for his hands, no, his wrists, and tugged off the watch and the band that hid behind them the scar of the name of Stiles’ mother and whatever else was written there. He laid them bare on the table, the soft skin inside held upwards.

Only scars were revealed underneath on the skin paler than the rest.

“They both read Claudia.”

Stiles’ heart halted in the moment. His head snapped up and his eyes attempted to reach his father’s, yet he was merely caressing the reminders covering his skin.

“One was clear as a day, beautiful in its script to me though she found it wanting. The other one was shaky, almost illegible. We often joked that it was her drunk self and that she never should drink. Alcohol certainly did not agree with her.” A fleeting smile flashed across Noah’s face. “I didn’t care. I loved her from my whole heart. Even when your grandfather didn’t approve, what did I care? She was it for me. She joked about her grand rivalry with him, called him her nemesis, and baked him the best treats to kill him with kindness.

“But then her hand grew shaky and I realised what my other wrist meant. I still didn’t care. No matter how it would end, I would be there for her. And then she—” His dad clenched his fists and withdrew his arms from the table.

Stiles stared into the empty space in front of him.

“What…” he whispered. “What was written on her other wrist?”

His father rose from his seat and walked over, hugging him tight to his chest. He was warm.

“I’m coming with you. I want to meet your chosen.”

Stiles threw his arms around his father’s waist and drew him closer. The comfort of his touch was gentle against the twisting of his innards and the burning of his eyes.

“Alright.”

***

The day Peter and Noah met was the day Kate Argent walked back into the town and raised hell. She no longer was human in any sense of the word; her skin had grown blue and she had shed all of her sensibilities with the change. She only cared about finding Derek.

Stiles couldn’t let that happen. Not now that he finally had found some semblance of peace, far away from her twisted insanity.

Peter ran for her throat, claws out and blue glinting. His father forced her into a standstill when his bullets hit her thighs and sent her arms spasming from the pain. And Stiles—

Stiles finished it off with one true shot with the bullets kissed by Lydia’s touch.

***

“Allison is inconsolable.”

Stiles sat on the bench with Scott, both resting after lacrosse practice. It was the first true alone time they had had in weeks… perhaps months. Some of their teammates had already headed towards the showers while others spent the time stretching. Stiles knew he should more soon so the sweat would not grow too cold over his brow. A letter burned in his pocket, the one he had kept on his person even during the gruelling drills.

“They found her aunt’s body,” Scott continued, biting his lips. “They don’t understand what happened to her. One day she was dead in her grave and the other she’s apparently been dug out and turned into… whatever that was.”

“Perhaps she turned instead of being killed and ran into trouble,” Stiles suggested. He carefully phrased it so the fact he knew that for a fact wouldn’t be revealed. They had gone down on the research, Peter and him. Less than a day and they found their answer. The way they moved, understood each other…

Stiles’ stomach fluttered.

“Someone mutilated her,” Scott continued as if he hadn’t heard him. “She thinks it’s the alphas. Something about them mocking her, them, by planting one of their bullets on her, making her… inhuman. She’s going to kill them all. I think… I think she might be right. All the alphas we’ve seen were bad; Peter was crazy and awful and _evil_ , Derek too, and all these others—” he trailed off and sighed. “What I wouldn’t do to be normal again. I could just play lacrosse with you and Allison wouldn’t have to be afraid that I turn into one of those beasts and mom didn’t have to worry about my grades…”

Stiles personally couldn’t help but wonder if Scott saw that ‘normal life’ he entertained with him still being the lacrosse captain and having got rid of his asthma, getting the girl and his picket fence. Because Stiles couldn’t picture himself in that, couldn’t find a spot meant just for him, and he couldn’t force his way in, lest he break it all apart.

Some fairy tales just weren’t meant to be.

_Fate is what you make it._

“Scott.” For once Scott immediately gave him his whole attention and Stiles froze under it, like a deer caught in the headlights. What was he—? The letter. Yes, the letter. “I have something I need to tell—”

“Oh, yeah!” He was cheerfully interrupted. While he was left railing, Scott prattled on, “My mom told me about your dad. She said something about him passing on the campaign, resigning instead? What’s up with that?"

“That’s, yeah. Part of it. I told him stuff, you know, all of it, so Dad decided that since Beacon Hills is such a—"

“Scott!” Allison’s voice rang across the field. Her head was twisting and turning, unable to find him. Scott instantly perked up, forgetting that Stiles was speaking, _what_ he had spoken, and turned his mopey puppy dog eyes on him. Stiles smiled, a little sad.

He could finally acknowledge it. He had lost all those months ago.

“You go get your girl,” he said. Scott’s grin widened. He clapped Stiles’ shoulder, a quick, fleeting touch, before he ran off towards her. He watched him go and, together, they disappeared around the corner. Scott never saw the wave he sent him.

It was still hard to let go.

Stiles leaned back, watched a cloud pass the sun without touching. He rolled his shoulders. It was fine. He could put the letter to his locker. It would find him there on Monday, along with a copy of everything Stiles had managed to gather on supernatural and Beacon Hills in particular. He then proceeded to jump up and jog towards Finstock.

He had more than one goodbye to say today.

***

Stiles finished packing the last box just in time for Peter to come pick it up. He looked around his childhood home, the wallpaper his mother had painstakingly searched for seven months before deciding on one, the kitchen he had burned his hands trying to cook a meal at the tender age of nine—

The good and the bad, they were all mixed up. The house was just a house for him, now that the things that made it home had been taken away and his dad was finalising the papers for the new couple moving in. The way Derek and he had come together and strong-armed the move…

Stiles shook his head. He counted back on his list, thinking if he had forgotten anything important. Not in the house, certainly, but elsewhere… Probably not as they had, after all, emptied the vault before this, Peter and he, taking everything that were for them to take. Nothing would be left for others to salvage anymore.

His phone beeped. He took it out of his pocket, fumbling with the aggressive chiming. He glanced at the screen, seeing the picture Lydia sent him with a wall of text. She was standing with the London skyline behind her, Jackson and Danny on either side of her. The picture looked snug and he knew the reality of it was even more so. He sent back only an emoticon—Lydia hated that—and stuffed it back into his pocket.

“Are you ready to go?” Peter asked. The box was held loosely over his hip. Stiles faced him completely.

“Are you?” he asked.

“Whenever you are.”

It could be called a coward’s move, not telling about the move beforehand. To his defence, he had tried. Maybe not as hard as he could have but he couldn't see why he should have when the other party surely did not. Yet he certainly was breaking the promise he and Scott made as kids—though it could be argued Scott broke it first—and, when Scott would read the letter he left him, it would probably elevate Stiles into the position of a betrayer of the worst kind, with him choosing what Scott considered the incarnation of evil over him. But whereas Scott’s name still was stark black on his white skin, Stiles had learned there were more to the world than walking with eyes closed.

He smiled. He took Peter’s other hand and pulled him out the door without looking back once. Only when they were by the car did he stop, drag Peter close and kiss him on the soft lips, feeling the joy against his own. He felt a hand close around the curling loops spelling his lover's name. A gust of wind tickled the bare skin of his arms.

It tasted like fate.

No… it tasted like love chosen.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! I'd love to know what you thought if you have the time to spare :)
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://hali-ra.tumblr.com/).


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